Hounded [Wild Hunt Series: 2]

10: Masquerade

Forever and Never -- Peter Gundry

Cold was a temperature I didn't feel much anymore, unless I thought of the long night to come, Then the icy knife of fear would twist deeper than my stomach, into that empty space below, into that space that was mine, and sacred and not his to fill.

Fire, however.

Terryl's knuckles brushed my shoulder, not tender, not soothing, just a soft appreciation for the naked skin. I'd never been a girl who got tattoos. I did some of the henna art when it was summer and fairs were in full swing and I wanted a cute boy to see something prettier on my shoulder than acne.

With her hands she felt along the curve of my spine, pulled my hair to one side, tipped me forward gently until the map of my back had been laid out to her satisfaction. For several long seconds nothing happened; she must have been preparing the needle, returning the sharp tip to the well of her arm.

The sharpened needle sinking below my skin didn't hurt at first, not compared to what I'd experienced. It was a numb vibration over my shoulder, pinching, but not unbearable. The paint started when the needle dug deeper. It felt as though it had struck the bone of my shoulder blade, as if every jab splintered bits off the bone, as if it were possible to ink marrow. A humming throb pulsed through my spine. This was worse than permanent, I thought, as heat sizzled off my brow and I twisted instinctively away from her. This was forever.

The process, thankfully, lasted no longer than an hour. As I dragged my aching shoulder to the window sill, to let the kindly heat of the afternoon sun take its turn as I tried to catch a glimpse of my requested design, Terryl scuttled over. The needlelike forefinger shrank back into a human digit. She clutched at her new shirt, turned it inside out and back and draped it over her chest with an excitement she didn't need eyes to express. I helped her slide it on with a friendly, 'You like it?"

Her pale chin dipped into an enthusiastic bobble. She rubbed her cheek against the hem.

"Looks very nice on you," I continued, fluffing out the shirt around her bony waist. I tried against to see the tattooed skull that now marred my shoulder, but there was nothing but the edge of black lines and irritated plump skin. "You did a good job," I told her anyway.

The two of us sat together for the rest of the afternoon, Terryl, probably because she had no choice, listening to stories of my hometown and Alaska. The adventures were nothing like the ones in this half-hell, but she was young and something about her hollowed eye sockets made me feel horrible, and guilty and awful. I wanted to tell her something, that I was sorry, maybe, but the only thing I could do was talk about my cattle and my mom and Ajax and happier times.

As the rich emeralds of twilight settled over the distant landscape, and the pallid creature below started up its hoarse crooning, the King returned.

He did not enter as he had in the past, simply dropped his clawed hand on the sill. Terryl, in her new clothes, crawled up eagerly. She was visible for a moment longer, then his rotted talons curled firmly around her and a new, empty paw was presented for me.

One gargantuan eyeball peered over the sharp talons. Immediately his paw retracted to swipe tiredly at the tattered feathers across his snout. "Honestly," he hissed, setting his paw back against the stone, a paw after all this time I was almost eager to jump into. "Your bare hide would be better than throwing on the grunt's rags."

But if he saw my bare hide, I had a feeling he'd leave me here in the Tower, impending wedding-be-damned. I rubbed my aching shoulder and glowered back at him. It wouldn't do to let him in on that secret yet, wouldn't do to show him that I was relieved to be going, not home, but the closest thing I had to it.